


Ocular

by drinkbloodlikewine, whiskeyandspite



Series: The Odalisque Timestamps [9]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Glasses kink, Hair Pulling, M/M, Rough Oral Sex, odalisque verse, vignettes of sex and violence verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-01-24
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:47:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkbloodlikewine/pseuds/drinkbloodlikewine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyandspite/pseuds/whiskeyandspite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This Will, now searching Hannibal’s eyes for reaction, knows </i>exactly<i> what to do with it, and when his lips part over broad white teeth in an uncertain grin, Hannibal’s heart still feels as though it’s stopped.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>“You -”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Got glasses,” Will nods, watching Hannibal over the rims of them, before setting his forefinger against them to shift them further up his nose. “A recommendation from you, actually, regarding the headaches that plagued me a few months back, I merely acted upon it today when I had the time.”</i>
</p>
<p>Based on <a href="https://40.media.tumblr.com/3b30c7a496c393c176f59b4541f8ba06/tumblr_nhs6c0x3vs1r9do03o1_500.png">this incredible piece of debauchery.</a> How we could we resist?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ocular

Will checks the time, taps his fingers against the table and finishes his beer. The boat isn’t far, and he should be home before the sun starts to set over the island. Hannibal perhaps won’t be home yet either, neither knew when the other would be back, both had gone to take care of personal business, to get more things for dinner or books or just to breathe - most days they spend together entwined anyway.

Will can feel the glasses against the bridge of his nose, new and light and almost entirely unnecessary. He had gotten them with the recommendation that it might help the minor headaches he got occasionally. He had decided not to tell Hannibal, lips curling even now with the thought of how the response to them would go. He hardly cares that they may last less than a few days - hours - in the house. He does want to watch the man entirely come undone, mind restarting to make sense of this.

The boat arrives and Will gathers his bag, jogging to the pier, hoping that when he comes home Hannibal will not be there, that he can have time to take a shower, set his things away, and stand somewhere entirely too visible for when the man comes home.

-

The house is silent when he returns and Will takes his time to set some choice ingredients into the fridge, into the overflowing pantry, he takes his time in the shower, comes out to dress in light pants and a thin shirt. He dries his hair enough for it not to drip, and sets his glasses against his nose.

He finds a book, one of the newer ones, still set on their table in the study, unsorted to the shelves, and meanders back to the kitchen, pulling a stool up behind himself with his foot to settle on and open, promptly falling into his book until the door unlocking jars him to look up. He smiles, warm, little, and tilts his head.

“Hey.”

“Hello, Will,” comes the familiar response, warm accent curling warmer still to speak those words, to his boy, who is already there again.

Hannibal ducks to remove his shoes, sets them aside and continues towards Will in the kitchen just off from the entry, a bag of fresh produce across his shoulder. A trip to the market, today, for no particular purpose other than Hannibal’s enjoyment of the myriad faces and voices, wares and goods for sale there. Space to breathe for them both, no concerns - for years, now - that the other might be absent when they returned, but he pauses, hand against the heavy cotton straps of the tote he uses for shopping.

Thick black frames, perched upon his boy’s nose, capturing in their lenses the wide blue eyes that search his own. Trimmed hair, though not cut so short as to fully tame the wild curls atop his head. A scruff, Hannibal notices now, from having shaved earlier the day but now at the end of it - a fine dusting of hair across his upper lip and along his jaw.

Will is, at once, entirely familiar and wholly unfamiliar, and it takes Hannibal a moment more to recover, and set his bag carefully upon the counter. He parts his lips with his tongue and tilts his own head, curiously now, before regarding Will sidelong again.

He is, of course, as ever, lovely. A face meant for Renaissance paintings and thinly veiled adorations in Victorian poetry, flushed lips and pinked cheeks and beautiful, utterly and always beautiful, but different now than when Hannibal had seen him that morning, with shaggy hair and clean-shaven face. It takes longer than Hannibal is comfortable admitting to reconcile the two faces of Will Graham that he has seen today, a faltering spark of recognition giving him pause as he regards him.

Will looks, for the first time that Hannibal has known him, his own age - more a youthful college scholar than an insolent child who possesses power in his beauty but knows not what to do with it.

No. This Will, now searching Hannibal’s eyes for reaction, knows _exactly_ what to do with it, and when his lips part over broad white teeth in an uncertain grin, Hannibal’s heart still feels as though it’s stopped.

“You -”

“Got glasses,” Will nods, watching Hannibal over the rims of them, before setting his forefinger against them to shift them further up his nose. “A recommendation from you, actually, regarding the headaches that plagued me a few months back, I merely acted upon it today when I had the time.”

“It takes more than a day to get a prescription,” Hannibal points out. Will just smiles.

“And this is perhaps the fifth time I have been out of the house this month. I have not been idle.”

“Far from it.” Hannibal’s tone is almost displeased, almost too angry, yet there is something else there, a strange awe, but one that appears almost helpless, as though he is losing this boy to himself, allowing him to grow and change and entirely helpless to it. Will bites his lip, shows that beyond the shorter hair - that will grow - and the glasses - that can come off - he is entirely himself.

And thus, entirely Hannibal’s own.

“Do you like my hair?” Will goads.  
Hannibal’s lips part, but for a moment no words find their way there. Eyes narrowing, just a twitch of the muscles beneath them, he steps close, fingertips drumming a staccato by which he paces his breath, his pulse, the very beat of his heart to steadiness again.

They rap rhythmically against the countertop still as Hannibal presses his other hand to the small of Will’s back, spreads his fingers wide as he pushes up to feel Will’s muscles twitch beneath his touch, until he twines them in Will’s shortened curls and brings his lips to Will’s hair. A kiss, yes, but also a breath, subtle and entirely intentional, as he takes in the smell of his boy again, eyes closing in a primal satisfaction that this is his.

Hannibal sighs, just as softly, and murmurs, “How many times, Will, have I told you that you are not allowed to cut your hair.”

With a snap of his wrist, his fingers yank tight into the curls - long enough still that Hannibal can grab them - and he jerks Will off the stool. He hits the floor with a thud and a startled yelp and even still Hannibal holds him. Bent, head pulled back harshly and neck bared, Hannibal crouches so low over the sprawled and insolent boy beneath him that he places a hand on the ground himself, perched as if in wait for prey to make another move.

“How many times, Will? And now, this as well. To hide one’s eyes is a sign of deception,” Hannibal snarls.

Nevermind that Will’s headaches had kept him from sleep, enough that Hannibal in concern began to offer potential reasons that they hadn’t ceased. Nevermind that having his eyes checked was entirely Hannibal’s idea. Nevermind the necessity of it, nor how remarkably beautiful he is, still.

Hannibal has never dealt well with change.

“Often enough,” Will replies, shifting his hands around on the floor until he can balance properly. He does not try to fight Hannibal here, nor does he at all want to. He knows what comes of stuff like this, of eyes like this and hands like this. He knows very well.

“And you can see my eyes just the same, with these,” Will tells him, grinning. “Perhaps even magnified now.” Eyebrows up, a tease, blatant, and entirely playful. He will take Hannibal’s displeased reaction and anything that comes with it, it truly hardly matters to him.

He wants nothing more, right then, than to lean up and kiss Hannibal properly, deep and long and parting their lips together, smearing his glasses with fingerprints till they find their way to the floor in their passion and desire to relearn each other again. Instead he just licks his lips, swallows, blinks at Hannibal from beneath his new glasses.

Hannibal’s eyes are drawn to the movement of Will’s mouth, his own lips thinning in response. A clever boy with clever looks, every gesture calculated and deliberate. He is no wilting, whimpering child, but he is still, despite his attempts to show his age, entirely -

“Insolent,” spits Hannibal, dragging Will to his knees by a fist full of cropped curls as Hannibal stands. “Impudent boy. Your eyes are mine. Your wretched tongue is mine. Your face, your hair,” he stresses, with a rough shake of Will’s head, “your body and your very breath is mine, Will Graham. And yet for all that I have given you, and what little I have asked, you repay all the things I have done for you with utter disregard.”

A slow turn of his wrist brings Will against him, pressing his hands against Hannibal’s thighs, and lips parting in practiced to response against the fly of Hannibal’s pants where already the twitching movements of his hardening cock can be felt beneath Will’s mouth.

“Open,” Hannibal tells him, and though his hackles are raised and his tone is rancorous, his narrowed dark eyes hold in them a faint amusement, and a certain pleasure. “Now, ungrateful boy.”

Will blinks, partially blinks, perhaps a flicker of eyelids, and brings his hands forward to work Hannibal’s pants open for him, pull them just enough down for the open V of them to part wider, underwear already straining where Hannibal’s cock hardens. For Will. Because of him. Because of the glasses that make him look like a high school junior, because of his stupid hair cut and dusting of stubble.

He takes his time to peel the fabric of his underwear down, leaning in to sigh against the skin, press the tip of his tongue to it before kissing against the vein and pulling back.

“Will, do not play coy.”

“I needn’t play,” Will tells him and get another warning tug before he laughs, presses his forehead to Hannibal’s thigh and then sits back enough to stroke him, working exactly where he knows Hannibal enjoys feeling his fingers, before finally running his tongue in a thick line up his cock and taking Hannibal into his mouth.

“Eyes up.”

Will does, amused, and closes them in genuine childish pleasure when Hannibal pushes his glasses back up his nose to sit properly.

Only then does Hannibal's fist untighten from Will's hair, sated by his beautiful boy's beautiful mouth, by the blue eyes that lift guileless to watch the reaction that he causes. A sweep of his tongue against Hannibal's frenulum, flicking across the taut join where the skin has been slid back, curls Hannibal's shoulders with a groan, and he leans back against the counter for support.

"You make me mad," Hannibal sighs, pushing a damp curl of hair back from Will's face. "To think that once I was a celebrated member of society," he breathes, anger fading ember by ember. "I lived in elegance and tailored suits, doctor and host and opera board member. To think that once I held dinner parties for dozens, prepared and presented in a skilled choreography. And now," laughs Hannibal, dark amusement. "And now I cannot even manage to put the groceries away without need to have you."

Hannibal wraps his hands around Will's jaw, thumbs tracing rough stubble, forefinger following the shadow of hair over Will's upper lip, bowed around his cock. He follows where damp mouth - scarlet and swollen - meets the tender taut skin of his own cock, and grasping Will's cheeks again, Hannibal lifts his hips to feel the tip of his reddened cock press against the back of Will's throat.

"You have ruined me," Hannibal whispers to him, and for all the accusation in his words, it sounds equally an adoration.

Compelled to worship a boy-god who demands no less than the entire sacrifice of one's self, a siren spirit whose eyes crinkle in pleasure at the words.

"Monstrous boy," sighs Hannibal, before he rocks his hips deep enough to make Will gag.

Will’s eyes close and he swallows, tries to find a rhythm to this thrusting that Hannibal deliberately changes to hear Will choke, feel him squirm. And despite everything, despite not at all being restrained here, Will does not pull back, does not free himself as his eyes start to tear and Hannibal gently lifts his face to see it.

"Disobedient and willful," Hannibal continues, groaning his pleasure as Will hums around him. "I ask so little and you disobey every single thing. Does it delight you? Knowing you undo me so?"

Will is allowed to pull back to breathe, swallowing air like a drowned man, allowed to gather himself before Hannibal’s hands find his face again, gently hold him where he wants Will to be.

"Open your mouth." Will does, tongue out and corners tilted in a smile. “You will take all of it, and you will stay still."

Will swallows carefully, inclines his head in understanding as Hannibal starts to press in, slowly, deliberately, clicking his tongue when Will starts to suck, wanting to just watch how far he can push before Will makes that sound, that soft little whine of displeasure, then the choking click, and still he remains unmoving as asked. Will’s hands tremble, throat working to swallow and he draws in air through his nose until Hannibal is pressed fully inside the boy, his nose brushing the coarse hair at the base of Hannibal’s cock.

Will looks up, eyes liquid blue, brows drawn in a silent begging to be allowed to move or touch or pull back before he's sick. His hands tremble against his own thighs, his body much the same under this pressure, and Will moans, helpless, just waiting.

Hannibal watches as spit swells from Will’s lips, tongue working as if to try and swallow, but finding the cock inside his mouth entirely unyielding. It builds and slides, thick drops down his chin, across his untended scruff, to pull long and drip to the floor between his knees. Only when another heave takes Will, jerking his shoulders taut and his eyes closed, does Hannibal relent, slipping back enough to allow Will to gasp around him before sucking him again, lips curved tight around Hannibal’s hard cock.

Will sucks, cheeks hollowing deep as Hannibal pulls back further and further still, until he slips free of Will’s ruddy lips with a gentle pop, and Will’s body shakes as he drinks in air, mouth still slack in anticipation for more. His cheeks are wet with tears that have escaped his eyes, glistening and bright, upturned to watch the man who stands before him, to watch Hannibal’s hand curl around his own wet length to stroke himself.

“Your tongue,” Hannibal demands, and Will sticks it out from his wide mouth, fingernails digging into his legs and his own breath quickening in time with Hannibal’s own shuddering sighs. His free hand presses to Will’s cheek, fingertips against the black plastic of his glasses, and with a groan he finishes, sticky ropes of cum across his boy’s face, across his lenses, thick white fluid splattering across Will’s glasses as Hannibal swears beneath his breath in Lithuanian.

Will laughs, lips parted and delighted, cheeks flushed and skin damp and filthy. He knows if he opens his eyes he won’t see much, knows that in the most twisted way his new appearance has been approved, accepted, allowed. He seeks with his tongue to lick from his lips, from Hannibal’s fingers when they are fed to him, and hums.

“Does the debauched look suit me?” He asks, voice rougher, pleased, eyes up over the rims of his unusable glasses to look at Hannibal.

The man looks spent, exhausted and pleased with himself, and Will continues to watch him as he puts himself away, slicks more of the thick fluid from Will’s face to press it past his lips.

“Always,” Hannibal answers, eyes hooding as Will sucks his finger clean. In truth, every look suits the boy - refined or ruined, clothed or bare, slightly older or playing to his youth. He is, always, beautiful, and his willingness to please is no small part of it.

Hannibal presses his finger against the boy’s tongue, traces his teeth with it, his lips, and finally lifts Will’s chin a little higher. The older man leans low and spreads his tongue wide across the lens of Will’s glasses, gathering his own release on his tongue, before feeding this, too, to Will, with a plunging kiss and a hum of satisfaction.

The other lens, then, with one long pull of Hannibal’s tongue across the glass, leaving a smudge in his wake. But this time, his own seed tingling salty against his tongue, he holds Will’s jaw in his hand and lifts his head back, waiting for him to open and spread his own tongue in return. Hannibal lets it drip, stretching sticky between their mouths, and watches in rapt pleasure as Will lets it slide into his mouth, and swallows.

“Beautiful,” Hannibal tells him, and satisfied that his claim has been made again, he reaches down to tuck his arms beneath Will’s and lifts the boy from the floor to pull him close and kiss him again, messy and pleased.

Will grins, nuzzles against the older man before reaching up to take his glasses off and squint at them.

“I’ll hardly see much at all with them like that.” It’s so easy, so normal, and Will folds them to set to the counter to wash properly later, hands up against Hannibal’s chest now, just curls lightly there as he’s held, as Hannibal leans in to breathe his hair in again, still displeased with the fact that Will had trimmed it.

“We have groceries to set out,” Will comments, glancing at the bags still full in the kitchen. “I assume dinner to make. And personally, I have a rather pressing problem to take care of. I doubt you’ll acquiesce to let me do it myself so I leave it to your capable mind and imagination to how to let me get off.”

Will bites his lip and laughs, a low thing in his chest. “What first?”

“Pressing, you say?” Hannibal tilts his cheek against Will’s hair, soft and fluffy where he rubs lightly against it. “It would seem irresponsible to tend to anything but that first.” He loosens his arms from around his boy and ducks to lift him up instead - still strong enough and Will still small enough that he can. Hannibal nearly purrs when Will loops his arms around his neck, accepting the sweet kiss that Will graces him with, and he turns to deposit the boy on the counter, careful not to crush his glasses.

“Have they helped?” asks Hannibal, genuine curiosity and concern both now that his own mind has been set at ease again. “With your headaches.”

He tucks his fingers into the waistband of Will’s loose, light pants and slips them off one hip and the other as Will tilts from side to side to accommodate, shivering when he sits bare on the cold granite counter.

“We’ll see in a few days,” Will shrugs, but he’s fairly sure it’s nothing serious. No other symptoms to suggest anything beyond stress and vision issues. He wraps his legs around Hannibal and tugs him back to have him close, hands against the lapels of his shirt as he arches his own back and smiles.

“You like them,” Will tells him, gleeful, even as Hannibal hums his disapproval of the tone. “You like how they look on me. And you enjoy, so very much, the idea that you can undo me while I wear them.”

Hannibal joins their mouths together again, lips snaring softly in a long kiss, before he pulls away to regard Will with narrow-eyed amusement. “They have a certain charm,” Hannibal admits, gaze sharpening a little more when Will beams with delight at this grudging acquiescence. “But,” he sighs.

“But?”

Strong hands press to Will’s shoulders to lay him back across the counter, and Hannibal lifts his shirt to kiss his belly, tongue tracing a line lower still until he nuzzles against the curls of hair gathered thick around Will’s pink, curved cock.

“But I can undo you just as readily without them,” Hannibal murmurs, before swallowing Will whole.

**Author's Note:**

> Odaboys timestamps posting every weekend now, for as long as we can manage <3 any ideas? Prompts? Suggestions? Send em along our way at [ the blog!](http://wwhiskeyandbloodd.tumblr.com/ask)


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